


The Monte Carlo job (or, the fake married twitterfic)

by Aja



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a twitter fic that mirabella told me to write. Apparently, she tells me to do things and I do things, because here is 1600 words of fake boyfriend twitterfic. And no, it hasn't been beta'd, it's twitterfic. The amount of self-loathing I feel right now is roughly equivalent to the amount that Arthur is going to feel when he wakes up in the morning and realizes that he got totally sloshed and pawed Eames' Cavalli and Eames let him because he's a posh slut.</p><p>(Eames' Cavalli, btw, looks like <a href="http://www.style.com/slideshows/2011/fashionshows/F2011MEN/RBTOCVLL/RUNWAY/00060m.jpg">this from the Fall 2011 collection</a>, because of course that is what he would wear to a gay cruise night in Monte Carlo, come on. Have I mentioned I was high when I wrote this.)</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Monte Carlo job (or, the fake married twitterfic)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a twitter fic that mirabella told me to write. Apparently, she tells me to do things and I do things, because here is 1600 words of fake boyfriend twitterfic. And no, it hasn't been beta'd, it's twitterfic. The amount of self-loathing I feel right now is roughly equivalent to the amount that Arthur is going to feel when he wakes up in the morning and realizes that he got totally sloshed and pawed Eames' Cavalli and Eames let him because he's a posh slut.
> 
> (Eames' Cavalli, btw, looks like [this from the Fall 2011 collection](http://www.style.com/slideshows/2011/fashionshows/F2011MEN/RBTOCVLL/RUNWAY/00060m.jpg), because of course that is what he would wear to a gay cruise night in Monte Carlo, come on. Have I mentioned I was high when I wrote this.)

  
  
  
Arthur suggests it.  
  
Eames' smirk freezes into place as soon as Arthur proposes the idea, and Arthur thinks: Well, that answers that question.   
  
Eames agrees readily, and Arthur doesn't know why he feels the need to try to - fuck, try to console him or something. It's not as if Arthur has any patience for homophobes, but he doesn't think that's why Eames' shoulders have been tight ever since he said it was fine with him.  
  
"Hey, just relax," he tells Eames at the end of the day. He's tempted to invite him to dinner so they can work out the kinks, relax a little, but Eames just stops in the doorway and gives him a wary look. "We'll just act like normal," Arthur finishes.  
  
Eames laughs dryly and leaves.  
  
Several things are absurd about this job already. It's in Monte Carlo, which is just absurd all by itself. Their mark is a retired gay hustler turned billionaire who married his best client-turned-lover, with whom he's now living his happily ever after on a 200-ft yacht. Apparently, they "like" Monte Carlo. More specifically, the mark likes secrets, and Monte Carlo is the place to come if you have any to hide or to sell. The mark has plenty of both.  
  
Arthur's research has turned up a cosy little soiree held every year on the yacht, and this is what he's basing the architecture of the job upon. The party is for old friends & a revolving coterie of attractive gay men. That, of course, is where Eames comes in. Eames who's already charmed the mark, already gotten a pass on board for himself and "a friend."  
  
"It's just one night," he says apologetically to Arthur, like he's asking for a favor, like Arthur didn't just volunteer to play Eames' date.  
  
"I've got to get in," Arthur replies, and it's just the truth. "Easiest way to do it."  
  
And that's that, until it's the night of the party & Eames turns up wearing fucking  _Cavalli_ , a gorgeous suit that offsets the setting sun and the bronze in his hair, and Arthur has to swallow before he can talk. Eames glances at him, nods, straightens his lapels, and says grimly, "Right, let's get this over with."  
  
They walk from the hotel to the dock and manage to stay silent the whole time. The last time they were this awkward around each other was the time Eames fell asleep on Arthur's couch after one too many at the bar, and then tried to make breakfast the next morning by way of apology. Arthur still can't eat bacon. It's ridiculous, so he stops just at the pier and says, "Hey," at the same moment Eames turns to him and says, "Look, this doesn't have to be—"  
  
They break off and stare at each other, and Arthur says, "You look nice," because it's true. Eames ducks his head. "I know you hate this," he says, "but I'll try to get you in and out again quick as I can. Just be arm candy for one night, you can manage that, yeah?" Arthur snorts. "Arm candy, Eames?" he repeats. Eames just grins at him, and takes his arm like he's proving the point. Arthur lets him. His suit's too hot, and Eames is sweltering next to him, all of his muscles filling out the lines of that suit like someone applied it with a spray gun. Arthur swallows, and goes for a drink as soon as they make it on board.  
  
At first, it's easy to do just what Eames suggests—hang back and on to Eames' arm while he does the rounds. He introduces himself as James to everyone, and Arthur as Philip, and then squeezes Arthur's arm gently when Arthur almost snorts out loud. Arthur drinks steadily for most of the evening and does his best to catalogue his surroundings, taking note of the layout of the yacht and the way the most honored guests all seem to be gradually streaming into a closed room on the upper berth.  
  
He leans in to point this out to Eames—"Can you get us in there?"—but Eames turns his head at the last second, and Arthur finds himself whispering against Eames' ear, his lips brushing the hollow at Eames' temple.  
  
Eames' eyelashes are very long, Arthur thinks. His voice goes all gravelly when he answers, "Of course I can, darling," and he looks at Arthur with something wine-rich and appreciative in his glance.  
  
"Been together long?" asks a guest whose name Arthur's already forgotten.  
  
Eames is still looking at Arthur, studying him like he would one of his forgeries, so Arthur drains his glass and answers for them both.  
  
"I've already forgotten how long," he says, which is a lie. "It was hate at first sight," he says, which is another lie. Eames smiles and leans into him so Arthur can feel the warmth of him tingling down his side.  
  
"Do you remember when he met?" he says, genial but with something serious lingering in the low notes of his voice, his eyes still fixed on Arthur. "I didn't even know your name, but I knew I was never going to let you out of my sight again."  
  
Arthur cuts him a sharp glance that Eames probably translates accurately as, "That’s because I had a gun trained on you, asshole."  
  
What he says, out loud, is, "And I knew I was going to need a restraining order." He winks and takes Eames' glass from him to finish it off as the other guests laugh. Eames just watches him, and a shiver runs over Arthur before he can remind himself that Eames is very, very good at his job, and they're both on the job now.  
  
He uses the excuse of having two empty glasses in his hands to break away and clear his head for a moment. It's claustrophobic inside the main berth of the ship, and the night air is still too warm, but Arthur will take it. He picks up new and very dry martinis and heads out onto the deck with both of them. In a moment, he thinks. In a moment he'll go back inside and research.  
  
The yacht, aptly christened the _Rebecca_ , is moored just off the coast, broad nose pointing out toward the water. Arthur stares out at it until each sparkling wavecap under the moon has become a pinprick he can see and count, and then when he loses count he starts over. He's lost count twice when he feels a strong arm at his waist, and warmth pressed against his spine.  
  
"You've been busy, I see," says Eames, murmuring the words into his ear. "Had enough to drink yet, darling?" He takes the empty glasses from Arthur's fingers and sets them on the railing.  
  
Arthur frowns at them. "One of those was for you," he says, and then, because it's probably not polite to attempt to give someone an empty glass, he says, "Sorry," and leans in and kisses Eames on his soft, broad mouth.  
  
Eames sighs and breathes into it, then pulls back. He tucks a strand of Arthur's hair back into place. "Has anyone ever told you that you make an excellent arm confection?" he says. Arthur frowns.  
  
"You're the arm candy," he says. "Wearing  _suits_ and looking—" he waves his hand to illustrate.  
  
Eames grins. "I'll wear suits as often as you like after this," he says, and he says it so earnestly that it makes something bitter twist in Arthur's gut.  
  
"No, you won't," he says. And it's true. Eames is only doing this because he has to, because he's pretending to be Arthur's—Arthur's whatever, and he's probably just laughing at Arthur's expense right now, just—  
  
"Oh," says Arthur, into the soft pressure of Eames' mouth, because Eames is kissing him again and his arms are snaking around Arthur's waist. Arthur tastes gin & martini olives and mint. He closes his eyes, leans closer, breathes in.  
  
"They're playing cards in back," says Eames against Arthur's lips. Arthur drags his own lips over them for the feel of sweat and stubble. "I convinced Andriori you think it's sexy to watch me gamble and lose," Eames says. "Shall we?" He puts his thumb against Arthur's cheek.  
  
Arthur steps back, blinks, tries to recapture his focus. Eames' face is flushed, and his eyes are bright, pinned to Arthur. "Absolutely," says Arthur, brushing down his coat tails. "Please don't let me distract you from doing your job, Mr. Eames."  
  
Eames drags his thumb down to Arthur's jaw, & then over his bottom lip.  
  
"Arthur," he says. He says Arthur’s name like he’s eating it and he likes the taste. “if you let me, later I'll show you exactly what kind of distraction you are.”  
  
Arthur shivers. It's colder out on the deck than he thought, perhaps-or maybe it's just that all the wavecaps that formerly glittered out on the ocean all seem to have coalesced and regrouped in the depths of Eames' eyes.  
  
"You may, Mr. Eames," he manages. And then, because it just feels right, he adds, "You always could have, you know."  
  
Eames looks over at him. "Darling," he says, extending his arm to Arthur without a word. Arthur takes it, and thinks, as Eames links their fingers together, that maybe that's all he's ever had to do.


End file.
